


Remember, Remember

by J_E_McCormick, TiltingPlanet



Series: Nouveau [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen, Reincarnation, as if we didn't have enough of these right, haha - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-06
Updated: 2013-05-07
Packaged: 2017-12-10 15:09:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/787427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/J_E_McCormick/pseuds/J_E_McCormick, https://archiveofourown.org/users/TiltingPlanet/pseuds/TiltingPlanet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nicolas couldn't take his eyes off Alexandre, he really couldn't. There was something at the back of his mind screaming at him, something that felt like it was probably important, but something that had yet to quite break through. It was the voice - the voice, that voice, that passion, he'd heard it all before somewhere. In a dream? It was something like that. That's how it felt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. It's Good To See You

**Author's Note:**

> (...The fifth of November)  
> That's really all I have to say about the chapter title...  
> I'm bad at naming things I'm sorry

Nicolas slunk into the theatre which his lecture was to be held in. He was just a minute off being late by the looks of it. He slipped into a seat at the back of the hall, where he'd be left well-enough alone, and pulled out a notebook, pen, and his flask. As an afterthought, he also retrieved his sketchbook and pencil, just in case. You never knew when inspiration would hit you, he'd learnt, and when your class was on the many revolutions of France, well, he was sure something would come up somewhere. While he may not have been particularly interested in them himself, this lecture was a class requirement, and he'd take what he could get. With all his supplies out and spread across the desk, Nicolas sprawled back in his seat, took a swig from his flask, and turned his eyes to the front of the hall.

Alexandre took a slow breath as he stood outside the doors to the lecture hall. He looked the part for this, suit and bag and all, but he'd never done this before. He was young, yes, but he'd been studying French history since he was old enough to read, had participated in the examination of any number of important artefacts and documents, and was generally regarded as an expert in the field despite being younger than some of these college students. He strode in confidently, pleased to see his laptop already set up and a glass of water standing by the podium. "Well, good morning to you all." he greeted coolly, setting his papers into a neat stack on the podium and clicking the laptop so that the title slide of his presentation showed. "As was probably mentioned to you by your professor, I'll be lecturing you all on the little recognized June rebellion, better known as the Student Uprising of 1832."

Nicolas blinked as he looked over the apparent lecturer. When the professor had mentioned some 'expert in the field', he'd been imagining someone... well, someone who looked older than 17 for starters. The man, who really looked like a boy, sorting his papers at the podium looked far too young to be lecturing a class of 20-somethings on French History. Still, his voice was smooth and confident, his stance strong, and he had a look of seriousness about him, so perhaps he was just blessed with the eternal youth of a Greek god. Either way, Nicolas leant forward on his desk, pen ready and hovering above his notebook, looking towards the PowerPoint but finding his eyes slowly drawn back to the man - Alexandre, according to his title slide.

"As has probably already been told to you all, the June Rebellion was the last violent outbreak of the July Revolution. It all began thanks to the establishment of what is commonly referred to as the July Monarchy-" Alexandre began the lecture, flicking to a slide depicting a painting of the coronation of Louis-Philippe. He continued on, going into the details of why so much unrest broke out among the people of Paris. The lecture was essentially memorized- the July Revolution was his favourite and his very speciality. His eyes wandered a bit as he spoke, allowing a bit of passion into his words as he described the actions of the 3,000 who participated in the rebellion. His eyes scanned the group- most of them looked amused with him. But there was one man in the back, probably older than Alexandre, who seemed utterly transfixed.

Nicolas couldn't take his eyes off Alexandre, he really couldn't. There was something at the back of his mind screaming at him, something that felt like it was probably important, but something that had yet to quite break through. It was the voice - the voice, that voice, that passion, he'd heard it all before somewhere. In a dream? It was something like that. That's how it felt.

Sometime during the lecture he abandoned notes for his sketchbook. When he could bear to tear his eyes away from the man at the front - his proud figure, the occasional gestures he made, passionate but controlled, his face, that wasn't entirely clear due to distance and _damn it why did he have to sit at the back?_ \- they flickered down to the page, where his hand was busy sketching out an image he wasn't entirely conscious of thinking up. It took shape without him ever really noticing, his glances only long enough to ensure he was not misplacing this or that line, and in this manner the lecture flew past.

The lecture managed to span nearly two hours. It was long, but Alexandre was covering the entire rebellion, with every detail his extensive research had ever unearthed. He'd found himself watching the man in the back. There was something strangely familiar about him, and it was irritating. It was distracting. If he could just place where the man was from he’d be able to focus a bit better. Not that these students were missing out on anything. It was rarely Alexandre gave lectures, but he was nothing if not thorough. "I thank you all for your attention. Your professor will see you Thursday." There were some claps from the students as the lights of the auditorium were turned on. The students packed their bags and left, some making comments on how young Alexandre was, how he couldn't possibly be that smart, etcetera. He didn't mind much, they were normal comments for him at this point. He sighed, slumping just a bit as he went about packing up his laptop and papers,

As the lights came back on, and Alexandre's voice ceased to ring through the hall, Nicolas shook himself out of his transfixion. Could the lecture be over already? He could barely remember the words and the information - he had maybe an hour’s worth of notes though, so he supposed he must have heard something other than that capturing voice - he had been so utterly focused. Seeing the rest of the students had mostly packed up and were leaving, Nicolas hurried to do the same, pausing only for a moment to look at the sketch he'd been working on.

The face on the page was achingly familiar. The man was in action, his arm raised in some grand gesture, a piece of fabric clutched in his fist and flowing down, and although it was only pencil and roughly shaded, he knew the colour was red. The clothes were in the style of the 1800s, though the most recognisable was a fitted jacket with a cockade visible pinned to the front. The man had curls that were starting to grow long, and his eyes somehow burned with passion, passion that was spilling from those lips in a loud, proud voice that entranced crowds and talked of revolution, liberté, égalité, fraternité, of the people rising and "who will be strong and stand with me?"

Nicolas looked up and caught sight of Alexandre slinging his laptop bag over his shoulder and starting to leave. It must have been only a split second that his head turned to profile in such a way that made it so painfully easy to transpose that expression of passion onto his, and in that split second everything _clicked_.

Nicolas lurched out of his seat, stumbling down the stairs with one hand outstretched, and a desperate cry on his lips.

"Enjolras-!"

At the moment, Alexandre was thinking just of getting home and changed out of his suit. Lectures were well and good, but the prep and giving of one sometimes left him exhausted. He'd answered questions from a few stragglers and was just preparing to leave when he heard someone yell. He jerked a bit, turning his head.

And his eyes went wide.

That was...

The scent of alcohol seemed to burn Alexandre's nose. It was so distinctly _there_ in that instant. The mental echoes of drunken rambling, of sceptic argument. Voices of other people, but none as distinct.

Then sharply, as though transposed over the man he was seeing now, an image of another man. Dark haired, a bit tired looking, very much drunk. The man staring at him with intent and focus and purpose. A warm hand in his. Something like a pain in his chest.

"Grantaire?"

That name - his name, his name! - shot straight through him. Grantaire. It had been so long... god, what had happened? He'd been shot. He'd been shot, alongside Enjolras, with Enjolras' hand squeezing his own, with those blue eyes looking at him and showing just the barest hints of a smile...

He rather thought he might collapse. He felt like all the breath had been knocked out of him. So long between then and now, and what seemed now like a lifetime without him - 24 years, had he really lived 24 years not even knowing that he was missing the person most vitally important to him? - and now...

Grantaire looked up at Enjolras, into those blue eyes that had always pierced him with looks like ice and fire, and felt he could do no more than stare.

Enjolras felt himself tremble slightly, felt his legs beg to just collapse underneath him.

They had died. Been dead. Died for the Revolution- the revolution he'd spent his entire life studying and dissecting and publishing papers on.

"Why?" He asked it softly, apprehensively. Why had Grantaire thrown himself down before the guns like that? He would have lived, it hadn't been his fight! A faithless man, that's what he called him.

But dear God it felt good to see him. It made his heart seize up and nerves ache with something like relief, as though a missing piece had just been returned to him.

He dropped his computer bag to the floor, and his briefcase, and even ignored it as his suit jacket slid slightly down his shoulders as he moved and stood in front of Grantaire- R, they'd called him R. "You put what little faith you had in the wrong man."

"The only man I ever could." Grantaire replied. "The only man who made me want to be wrong, who I wanted so desperately to be right. And look, see for yourself. You were the right man, Enjolras, the only man, for me to put my faith in. If you were to be a martyr for your beliefs, then I would be a martyr for mine."

Grantaire finally reached out, his fingers brushing Enjolras' palm as he clasped his hand, the touch seeming to send sparks through him. This was how they'd ended. He stared down at their hands, something like awe creeping into his voice as he added, quietly "And you permitted it."

It was an echo, it was all echoes, the memories still reverberating through his mind as everything flooded back to him, but here was Enjolras, clear and tangible. And oh, he'd been so wrong, and everything felt so right, and he thought he might start crying because of it all.

"How could I not? For a faithless cynic to believe so much, even with all his scepticism." Enjolras stared down at their hands, weaving his fingers between Grantaire's and squeezing lightly. How could he not permit it? Grantaire had given up everything, his very life, for a revolution he didn't believe in. He'd given everything up merely because of Enjolras.

Because of him.

"You would have lived. But you chose to die with me." There was an odd note in his voice, his tone slightly choked. This was all so strange, but all so matter of fact and perfectly right.

"It's very good to see you." Enjolras tugged on their joined hands, brought them together so he could wrap Grantaire with his free hand. They'd never done this, he was sure of that, but it felt good to hug Grantaire. There was no one around, and even if there were, appearances be damned.

Grantaire let out a choked sound into Enjolras' shoulder, winding his one free arm tightly around his torso, holding on as if he never planned to let go. His other hand stayed joined with Enjolras'.

"It's good to see you too." he managed.


	2. Go From Here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I feel like we should have more to talk about, here." Enjolras was reluctant to say it, but that was the honest truth. They were standing here, awkward and out of place, skirting around any sort of productive discussion like skittish cats.  
> Grantaire grimaced and looked away, down at the floor. "I... don't know what to say." he admitted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now you guys get your E/R yaayy

They stayed like that for a while, pressed together and drinking in the other’s presence. The silence was intermittent, but not uncomfortable. Fragile, perhaps. It felt as though any movement would break... break whatever this was. Enjolras wasn't entirely sure, just felt positive that this was _right._

It was with reluctance that he finally leaned back, hand still tightly holding Grantaire's, to appraise the other man. "So this is certainly strange."

A huff of laughter escaped Grantaire's lips. "You're telling me." he chuckled. He wasn't just talking about the whole apparent-reincarnation either; it was strange to be this close to Enjolras, to see him so human, to talk with him so soberly - holy shit he was practically _sober_ \- to not be aching so much. Strange in that it was different, very different from how he remembered it, but not different in a bad way. Most definitely different in a good way. It was strange to think about, too, how just hours ago he had been completely oblivious - Nicolas had been completely oblivious - of all of this. Of the fact that he'd died, of the man now stood in front of him. Strange, all of it.

A rueful smile played at Enjolras' mouth as he shook his head minutely. "I think we have some catching up to do. And I'd rather not do it standing in a lecture hall." His tone was mild, tinged with subtle amusement if one was being truthful. His mind went to the bag he'd dropped- and yes that was certainly weird. Enjolras who couldn't even fathom a laptop, and Alexandre who used one most parts of the day for work. Like having two people in one's head while being exactly the same. It wasn't disjointed, actually blended rather nicely. But his mind was making an awful time of slotting everything together. "You certainly look better off than before." Not drunk, for starters. Better fed, not so unkempt and haphazardly thrown together.

"It's early yet." Grantaire's lips twisted in a smile that wasn't quite true, as if reading the hidden words. Though he had to admit that yes, he was far better off than before - really, looking back, it was a wonder he hadn't found some way of killing himself before Enjolras came along - he still had his vices. Drinking for one, a habit that he apparently hadn't been able to shake off even in another life. He was as cynical and faithless as ever. But it wasn't as bad as before. "I don't live far, or there's a nice cafe..." Grantaire trailed off, this mind wandering back to their cafe, the Musain, the back room that was always filled with chatter and laughter and their friends... He shook himself. "Wherever, I have all the time in the world."

Paused for a moment, Enjolras released Grantaire's hand to fix his suit jacket and retrieve his things, briefly unzipping his laptop bag to check that it was, in fact, intact. "I'm not sure how good of an idea it would be to talk in public." Quite unfortunately, he lived a good ways away- too far to walk, and at least fifteen minutes by car. And that was just this apartment, he moved regularly, following the history. "I'm not due for anything for the rest of the day though." Well, he'd have to make a call to the professor he'd done this lecture for; let him know that all had gone fine. But otherwise Enjolras was free to do as he pleased for the day. Tomorrow, thank God, wasn't supposed to be too busy either. Historical document cataloguing at a Reign of Terror museum.

"And this was my only lecture today. So, my apartment it is, then." Grantaire said. "I suppose I should apologise in advance for the mess... I don't get many visitors." he said, sheepish grin creeping onto his face. His apartment was as messy now as it had been before, although slightly less sparse, and covered in as many French History textbooks as it was Greek Classics and art supplies.

"I wouldn't really expect anything less of you." It was a simple expectation, something he hadn't even thought about but just knew. Grantaire was a mess, plain and simple. Situating his bags, he dropped off the keys to the lecture hall before following Grantaire out. He wasn't entirely sure what to say. This was all almost dizzying in its sheer improbability. Shouldn't he have been more freaked out? Confused? Something beyond a dull throb of something distinctly happy?

Grantaire grinned and lead Enjolras through the streets he navigated every day between the University and his apartment. It only now occurred to him how much Paris had changed. Every turn was a new wave of remembrance, everything being seen as the then and now, and in some ways it was exhausting. He reached back to take hold of Enjolras' sleeve - not his hand again, he wasn't brave enough - to ensure he didn't lose him in the busy streets. One thing he definitely was not planning to do was lose Enjolras, and that thought struck him. They both had their own lives already; Alexandre, the young History expert, Nicolas, the half-hearted university student. They couldn't just drop that, and they couldn't go back to how it was before. Grantaire did not want to lose Enjolras again, could feel himself once again becoming a satellite to Enjolras' gravity, and now that he knew what he'd missed he ached just to think of it, but Alexandre had his life, and that life did not involve Grantaire.

The walk was essentially silent, but not uncomfortably so. To be honest, Enjolras was thinking. It was all so odd. His entire life an echo of one of someone- of a him- that had died little older than he was now.

Were the others walking the streets of Paris, completely unaware of who they used to be? How did this all work? Why? Nearly two centuries between then and now, but seeing Grantaire brought it back.

How was this going to work? He moved constantly, longest he'd lived anywhere in the past few years was six months. He was so happy in that moment to have found Grantaire that the thought of falling back into the routines of Alexandre as though none of this had happened made him almost ill.

If Grantaire noticed his pensive state, he didn't mention it. When Enjolras was deep in thought, well, there was a reason Grantaire had once referred to him as a marble statue. He'd called him Apollo, too, his beloved sun god, a light which he couldn't live without. It all came back like the dim light of the sun breaking through thick clouds, creating god-rays that lit patches of the Earth below. Some things were still obscured - what had been the name, again, of that friend they'd had who'd fretted over cold weather and the merest indication of unhealthiness; of the one who had a dirtied face and a battered cap and old clothes starting to become threadbare, but still with a smile; of the one whose hair was long and adorned with flowers? There would be time to think on it later, time to discuss and search for answers later, but for now Grantaire focused on paying enough attention to the door of his apartment that he could fit the key in the lock. He finally succeeded in opening the door, and gave another tug on Enjolras' sleeve to urge him through. The front room of his apartment seemed at once strange and familiar; Nicolas was home, but Grantaire was taking it in for the first time. It was an odd feeling.

Enjolras followed through, closing the door behind him and sagging slightly. He was suddenly very, very tired. There was something impossibly exhausting about all of this, the onslaught of memory and weird mesh of familiar and alien. "So what have you been up to?" Perhaps not the most eloquent of phrasing, but probably the closest to what he was trying to say. He wanted to know how this life was for Grantaire- Christ, was his first name even still Nicolas? They were both new people, distinct despite whatever was going on. There was a sort of disconnected feeling in his stomach. Enjolras was not a rebellious college student in the 1800s, but he was also no longer a 21st century young man who had devoted his life and intelligence to studying the past.

Grantaire snorted, amused, before answering. "Oh you know, not much." he said sarcastically. Then, more seriously, "Moving to Paris to get away from my father. Double majoring in Art and French History. Christ, _double majoring_ \- I swear I never attended this many classes before. Drinking. Not so much has changed after all." He shook his head with a dry chuckle, before turning his eyes to Enjolras "And what of you? ‘Youngest expert on the French Revolutions’, I'll bet. It's practically in your blood, isn't it?"

Enjolras nodded. "My parents are both experts, so I’ve sort of done the same." He responded after a moment's thinking. "I've only just recently moved back to Paris- I don't live anywhere particularly long." Not that he needed to. He was a young man, tied down only by possessions and his cat. He could, did, go wherever work took him. Closest he'd ever get to impulsive. "Lot of studying, lot of work." He allowed himself a small smile, chuckling. "A lot of protest participation." Granted, he'd gotten a bit... extreme with it at certain points, activism bleeding over into teenaged rebellion. Thank the lord all photographs of _that_ era of his life were kept hidden.

"You wouldn't be the same without it." Grantaire chuckled along with him. The happiness drained slightly as he said "Nowhere for long, huh? I don't suppose Paris is any exception?"

Of course, Enjolras had always been an independent spirit, and always, always married to his cause. If his work was the only thing that tied him down, then of course he’d be always moving to catch up with it. If rebellion had stirred elsewhere than Paris in 1832, Grantaire had no doubts that Enjolras would have followed it. Patria called and Enjolras followed. Now, it seemed it would be no different.

Enjolras shook his head, his expression funny. "I always come back. Nothing ever manages to keep me away for very long." The longest he'd been gone from Paris, as an adult, was a year, after a stint of work across America working with fellow historians.

But it was unsurprising. Paris was special, and it held near everything, historically speaking. The catacombs, the museums, archives, Versailles- to an extent. Paris was the heart of everything he did, and, likewise, he didn't last long away from it.

He arched an eyebrow. "What's wrong? You don't normally look so unhappy."

Grantaire seemed to startle, like he hadn't realised he's allowed his expression to drop, and the smile came back to his face - the same smile as always, that so often fooled people. "Nothing, nothing, Apollo." he assured. And really, it wasn't. Nothing new.

Enjolras couldn't help a snort. Of course, back to that. Always that name for him, and never for any good reason. "I feel like we should have more to talk about, here." He was reluctant to say it, but that was the honest truth. They were standing here, awkward and out of place, skirting around any sort of productive discussion like skittish cats.

Grantaire grimaced and looked away, down at the floor. "I... don't know what to say." he admitted. He really didn't; was he meant to tell his whole life story of Nicolas, before this? Talk about their life before? Their death? In some way, he realised, he'd been hoping for some sort of... what? Maybe recognition was the word. For Enjolras to realise what he had never dared to say, the reason behind his actions, for him choosing to die by his side. But there had been nothing yet, and he presumed there would be nothing to come. Now the problem to face was how to reconcile his old life - a drunken nobody, a satellite of a god come to earth, an unrecognised martyr - and his new one, which had suddenly been show to have a huge hole which, it seemed, would not be filled.

Enjolras nodded. "Neither do I." There were things he would _like_ to say. All sorts of things. Namely yell at Grantaire for being an idiot martyr and throwing himself in front of those guns. Letting himself be slaughtered. Enjolras wanted to yell and rant and reprimand until he was hoarse.

He also just wanted to hug Grantaire and not let go, and that was, by far, the most terrifying epiphany of them all.

Yes, he liked Grantaire. Of course he did, they were friends. There was a reason he hadn't been chased from the group despite his drunken antics. But Grantaire was also smart, no matter what he thought, and made arguments with some sense behind them. They made Enjolras think and have better reason for what he did.

His foil. That was the literary term for it. A character created to act as contrast. Opposites, but Enjolras had always done his best work in Grantaire's company.

"The mighty Enjolras, speechless?" Grantaire quipped, and sent a smirk the blonde's way. "Why, I never thought I'd see the day, but here we are."

Suddenly he thought that he really, really needed a drink if he was going to be stood here in awkward half-silence with Enjolras. Normally, Enjolras would be waxing lyrical and preaching to their friends, and occasionally Grantaire would cut in from the corner with his scathing remarks, and perhaps then they'd hold a lengthy debate - not an argument, he liked to think - until either Grantaire was becoming too incoherent to continue, or Enjolras dismissed him coolly. Here, alone with him, no friends to fill the silences and no comments to make and debate over, with a lingering awkwardness of topics being skirted and avoided, he decided there should be something to distract them both, or at least himself. He retreated from the front room, calling over his shoulder "Drink? I have juice or pop if you want them." and grabbing a beer for himself.

Enjolras rolled his eyes and frowned, just a bit. So easily they fell into old habits of dancing around one another. Was this just how they always would be? Two people only friends because of a group of people that are no longer there, constantly cutting one another down verbally.

"Either would do." He said, rubbing his temples and after a moment following after the elder to the kitchen. He was biting his tongue, holding down a comment on the absolute mess of the apartment.

Holding down a lot of comments. He just wanted to... "You are the stupidest man I know. You would have lived if you'd stayed quiet and sitting. The revolution was never your battle, so what were you dying for?"

Grantaire froze halfway through pouring out orange juice for Enjolras and almost overflowed the glass, only just remembering to pull away before ending up with sticky liquid all over his kitchen counter and floors. He looked back over his shoulder, to see Enjolras standing there, staring him down, and rather regretted the action, but all the same turned to lean back against the counter in some false sense of nonchalance.

"So you don't know?" he chuckled, but there was no real humour to his tone. Of course, of course Enjolras wouldn't realise. How foolish he had been in his final moments to think that half-smile had been some sort of recognition. He took a swig from his beer - damn, they'd prohibited absinthe hadn't they? - and meet Enjolras' eyes. "I ask to die beside you, and you still don't know?"

Enjolras shook his head. "The only things that come to mind are... unlikely in the best cases." And that look Grantaire was giving him tempted his subconscious, implying further what he thought it was. He'd always had some niggling feeling that Grantaire... felt for him. But back then, that was simply just not something one did. Or if you did, you didn't advertise it. But nowadays? Now it was normal, accepted. But it was still something he wasn't sure he wanted. The idea was appealing- to be romantically involved with Grantaire, hesitant as Enjolras was to admit it. But how similar were they to how they were? Did they still have their former dynamic? Would they be to changed to work? And they had lives. Obligations. Whatever changes were a possibility relied solely on Grantaire's answer.

"Enjolras, we're standing in my kitchen in the 21st century after being shot in 1832 and reincarnated. Try me." Grantaire challenged, stepping forward, closer to Enjolras. Despite his words and his tone, his eyes were searching, pleading.

"You are absolutely insufferable and I will never know why I like you." Enjolras reached his hands out and grabbed Grantaire around the shoulders and tugged, kissing the other man firmly on the mouth.

Stupid idiot. Stupid, stupid, Grantaire.

_Well._

That was really not what he was expecting.

Not that he was going to complain. Once the initial shock wore off, Grantaire fisted his hands into the front of Enjolras' shirt, pulling him closer as he returned the kiss full-force. God, for all the times he's hoped and dreamed, never once had he ever really believed this would happen. He still wasn't sure he could really believe it.

Reckless.

He was never this reckless. Calculated risks, that was how he'd always worked- regardless of the life.

But here he was, kissing Grantaire in the middle of the other man's kitchen.

And.

What on Earth was wrong with him.

It was like being intoxicated and sharply clear and dear lord, who cared, this was right.

After a time of just kissing Grantaire, he leaned back ever so slightly, forehead rested against the other man's, panting slightly.

"Well." Grantaire huffed, his fingers still curled into the front of Enjolras' shirt. "Maybe you're not as oblivious as I thought."

He looked up through his lashes, smirking wickedly. The smirk relaxed though, slowly becoming a genuine smile, and he closed his eyes, sighing. "At last, you see."

But here he frowned, and looked up with confused eyes at Enjolras. "Why?"

Why would Enjolras kiss him? He'd resigned himself long ago to be chasing a hopeless case, like he'd always thought Enjolras had been with his revolution. Perhaps he had wanted Enjolras to know what he felt, but never had he expected anything other than to be turned away or dismissed. That was why he hadn't had the courage until they had been about to die; it didn't matter whether Enjolras reciprocated or not then, because he hadn't been expecting for anything to come after the gunshots. Yet, here they were, and Enjolras' forehead was still pressed against his, and he still felt the ghost of lips against his own.

"I have never met anyone who could match me intellectually as you manage to." Enjolras said, softly, sharing a secret. But there truly had never been anyone who matched him quite so seamlessly, comment for comment, the way Grantaire managed to. "I reprimanded you because I knew you could do better than being the resident drunkard." Because Grantaire was far better than drunken fumbles and silly comments. He was clever, that much was certain. Talented in what interested him, bright enough to follow politics- even ones he cared nothing for. Physically strong the way their other friend had been- what was his name. It had started with a 'b'.

"Could I?" Grantaire asked dully. "I'm good for playing devil's advocate, but not much more than that." He was intelligent enough, he supposed. But law didn't appeal him, and politics without Enjolras meant nothing to him. The Greek Classics interested him, but the thought of studying them outside of his own free choice did not. He'd been an art student, but an art student who had been absent for most of his classes, drinking himself past consciousness instead. He'd come to live for arguing Enjolras' ideas, and past that he'd never really thought he could ever amount to much of anything. It hadn't bothered him much.

"I think so." Enjolras nodded, subtly, just enough to give a clear 'yes' without breaking the contact between their foreheads. "You never give yourself enough credit." A lot of their little group- he still couldn't remember names- had been like that. An odd band of misfits who never gave themselves the credit they deserved. "Look at yourself now; you said you're a double major. You're obviously still older than I am, and you haven't quit yet." Enjolras took a slow breath, slid his arms around Grantaire's shoulders and shifted his head to lean into Grantaire's shoulder.

Grantaire just hummed. "Yet most likely being the key word." he muttered, and quietened when Enjolras shifted. Carefully, almost hesitantly, he slipped his arms around Enjolras' waist, locking them behind his back and holding him close. It was a strange but good feeling, the moment fragile as glass, and he let his eyes close as he drank it in.

"Did I not say you were a faithless man?" Some things really and truly never change. It was comforting that Grantaire was still such a cynic. He was just the same despite how obviously they'd both changed. "What happens from here?" The question was quiet, half not wanting to be spoken. This... whatever it was, was as fragile as glass, felt as though it would break if Enjolras so much as breathed funny.

Grantaire's arms tightened slightly, as if he was worried everything would start to break apart when he opened his mouth to speak. "We... We find a way to reconcile then and now." He didn't know about Enjolras, but now that he remembered the life he'd led before, his new life seemed suddenly so far away, and more foreign by the minute. Things overlapped in his head and he felt he needed time to get them to settle into a state where he could at least pretend to get back to normal. "And... we go from there?"

Enjolras was busy, he knew that. Technically, he was busy too; like Enjolras said, he hadn't dropped out of university, could still potentially make something useful of himself yet. He hadn't planned for this, hadn't had any idea that there was someone who held such force over him - he had always been a drifter, never headed somewhere in particular and not often fixating to one place - and really, he had no idea where to proceed from here. Just one thing he was certain of; he didn't want to lose Enjolras.

Falteringly, Enjolras slide one hand from Grantaire's back upward to rub a thumb over the nape of his neck. "Breathe, I'm not going anywhere." Granted, he felt the same dizzying spiral of trying to fit together who he had been and who he was now, but he wasn't about to break apart, leave Grantaire to break apart. This, no matter how strange and unbelievable it was, was not something he was about to let go. Perhaps he didn't feel as strongly for Grantaire as the other man did him, but there was certainly something and he wasn't about to let it break.

"We'll just have to be a bit creative." He'd just recently moved back to Paris, he'd be here for at least three months, and longer if he didn't purposely request change of pace as he usually did. They'd figure all this out. Grantaire breathed in deeply, nodding against Enjolras’ neck, and the two stayed like that for a while in silence, drinks forgotten.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, me writing Grantaire, Tilt writing Enjolras~


End file.
